


It's been a long, long time

by EllaStorm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas in the Bunker, M/M, Wincest - Freeform, and 50s music for some unknown reason, hopeless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 13:30:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2734382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllaStorm/pseuds/EllaStorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seasonally appropriate Wincest fluff with 50s music. Set somewhere in S8, probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's been a long, long time

Sam woke in the middle of the night to the faint sound of music pouring through the closed door of his room. It took him a few seconds to emerge from his sleepy haze and glance at the digital clock on the nightstand – 2:36 a.m., 25th of December. Some excited little-boy-voice in his head shouted _Christmas!_ , before he could make it shut up for good, and left him with a painful tugging sensation deep in his guts. He and Dean hadn’t celebrated Christmas ever since that one, fateful year before he had gone to Hell. And that had been, what, five years ago? Sam knew it was better to let things rest and not bring the rather volatile subject of Christmas holidays up around Dean. A lot of serious shit had gone down ever since he’d returned from Hell (the apocalypse, to name only one of them), and celebrating _anything_ was the last thing his brother wanted to do – that’s what had been strongly implied to Sam. But sometimes he just couldn’t help himself and ever since they had declared the bunker their new refuge and the Advent season had begun, his mind had started wandering, giving him cheesy visuals of either cheap Christmas decorations on the bunker’s library walls, or trays full of freshly baked cookies in the kitchen, or of Dean making out with him on the bed in his room with blinking Christmas lights everywhere – and that was another volatile subject, right there. As far as sex lives went: They didn’t really have one any more. Like, at all. And one could certainly argue that fucking one’s brother did _not_ qualify as a healthy sexual relationship in the first place, but Sam had accepted years ago that that was as healthy as it got for them, so the problem still remained. He had actually forgotten when they had slept with each other for the last time, and – worse – when he had stopped remembering it. Sex had been the only thing without walls and boundaries between them, where Dean was open and vibrant and _his,_ even if only for a few precious moments, and –

 

Sam stopped his train of thought right there, because he wasn’t going down _that_ road again and rip open wounds that he’d just recently managed to sloppily stitch up when there were already too many festering. Instead he concentrated on the music from outside, trying to determine what song was playing. Usually Dean listened to his music in the bunker exclusively through his headphones (since he’d _finally_ arrived in the 21st century, digitalised his cassette collection and put it on an MP3-player, like a normal person) – but the parts of the tune Sam could make out did not exactly sound like Dean’s standard cock rock either. More harmonic. More _soft_ , really.

All of a sudden curious, Sam sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, tiptoeing over the freezing cold floor and cracking the door to his room open. The music was louder now (was that a 50s _love song_?) and there was definitely dimmed light coming from the library. He slowly walked down the corridor towards it, before finally peeking around the corner. Taken aback, he let the scenery before his eyes sink in for a minute:

 

Dean was indeed sitting at one of the long tables in the library, wearing that horrible morning gown he had found, legs propped up, head leaned backwards, a half-empty bottle of whiskey next to him, and an ancient-looking _gramophone_ of all things on the other table with a vinyl happily spinning on it, surrounded by vintage disc covers. A woman’s voice was blearing out of the speaker, and Sam couldn’t identify the tune, but it was definitely not the kind of music his brother normally listened to. The faint light of the lamp in the corner painted Dean’s face in shadows, accentuating the stretch of his neck as a long, sinuous line. Everything about him looked sort of – relaxed, and it hit Sam once more just how beautiful his brother was. He seemed to forget about that from time to time, but right now he found it impossible to ignore.

 

The song ended just then, and Sam stood there, halfway in the room, at quarter to three a.m. on Christmas Eve, and tried to figure out whether to walk over and kiss his brother or not, before the next tune started playing, relieving the silence, and this time Sam recognised it instantly, even if the title didn’t come to him. _Kiss me once, then kiss me twice, then kiss me once again,_ and he made up his mind. As quietly as possible he entered the room, carefully sneaking up on Dean. His brother didn’t seem aware of his presence, absorbed in his thoughts and the music, until Sam leaned down to brush his lips against Dean’s. That’s when his eyes flew open, and he would probably have fallen backwards with the chair, hadn’t Sam grabbed him by the lapel of his gown to pull him back into balance. “Woah, careful”, he said, softly.

 

Dean just stared at him with those big, startled eyes, and Sam’s mouth felt dry all of a sudden, guilt surging up in him. He should have left Dean alone. Now he had ruined the probably only peaceful moment his brother had granted himself all year. “Sorry”, he managed. “I’m sorry.” – and then Dean was on him, mouth basically _crushing_ into his, tasting faintly of whiskey, and hands digging into his hair, pulling him into a position that made his back protest with a vengeance, but Sam could honestly not have cared less. Because there it was again, welling up and taking root in his body, right under his skin, this long-absent, all-erasing feeling of _safe, home, mine._

 

Things got a bit blurry after that, and Sam later vaguely remembered being shoved in the general direction of his room and having chilly feet, but his brain must have sort of dissipated somewhere between kissing the living daylights out of Dean and Bing Crosby’s voice fading out in the background around the lines _It’s been a long, long time_ ; leaving Sam only with the distinct memory of heat deep in his stomach, lips sucking bruises on his neck, scarred skin beneath his fingertips, the familiar smell of sweat slightly tinged with alcohol surrounding him, and the overwhelming knowledge that this was _Dean_ and this was _happening, finally, again, hold on, I’ve got you, want you, not gonna leave you, please._

When his mental functions clicked back into service he found himself plastered to the back of a sweaty, sticky and altogether very sated Dean. And maybe he was not completely in his right mind after all, because he dared bury his nose in Dean’s hair and whisper a low “Merry Christmas”. His brother grunted, barely awake, but he didn’t disentangle himself from the embrace, and that was probably as good as it got. Sam started grinning a little, then, before adding: “Your latest music choices are very – interesting, Dean. Are you going into midlife crisis?” Dean grumbled again, this time a lot more irritated. “Fuck off, bitch, and go to sleep.” Sam’s grin broadened. “Alright. Jerk.”

 

He wasn’t entirely sure the next morning whether it had been imagination, but shortly before drifting off to sleep, Sam remembered feeling a “Merry Christmas to you, too, Sammy” breathed into his skin.


End file.
